


Movement: Nocturne

by Iristedeu



Series: Movement [9]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Angst, Bard Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Bards doing Bard things, Elezen Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Platonic Cuddling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-14
Updated: 2020-06-19
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:55:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24721921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iristedeu/pseuds/Iristedeu
Summary: On the eve of Holminster Switch, Alvaar just wants to get some sleep on the first proper night he’s had in days. But there’s no rest for the wicked, and it’s more than worth staying up to comfort the person who needs it most.Handling loss and grief is starting to feel old hat to him anyway.
Relationships: Alisaie Leveilleur & Warrior of Light
Series: Movement [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1744579
Comments: 9
Kudos: 22





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Time Frame: Shadowbringers MSQ. Spoilers accordingly up to Holminster Switch.
> 
> Notes: Grief and angst and a whole lot of comforting the best girl. Platonic SFW with an older Alisaie.

With a fresh breeze from the first night sky over Lakeland in 100 years, Alvaar figured he was long overdue for some sleep. It didn’t make it any easier to find, especially when he knew Alisaie likely still grieved for Tesleen at Holminster’s Switch. In fact, he’d rather hoped to abate some of that unease with one of his old late-night talks with Alphinaud, but the Scholar had dismissed himself shortly after they’d arrived at the Crystarium.

He didn’t _like_ leaving Alisaie behind, but he understood her request to be alone. To grieve in solitude as she had likely done many times before.

So he’d had a nice chat with some hunters in a bar, had a few ales, listened to Ardbert be suitably cryptic while he shrugged out of his gear and cleaned it, and fallen face first into his bed in little more than his boxers.

Perhaps it’s the stress of a foreign world that has him sleeping too hard to rouse at the light rap at his door. The faint creak as the door swings in stirs him just a little, ear twitching but writing it off as unimportant. It’s only when the chill of slim fingers settle to his chest that he blinks awake, tense and still as someone burrows in against his back in silence.

How he didn’t come awake swinging is a whole other mystery... But it’s the cursory glance at well-kept nails that has him speaking with certainty instead of hesitant question. “Alisaie? You’re cold, dear.”

He doesn’t receive a response, though on some level he didn’t expect her to. It’s not the first time she’d handled her grief in the quiet or the silence, but he supposed it’s the first time she’d invited herself into his bed. Briefly he ponders the scandal of it, more from not wanting to upset her brother than anything else, but for everywhere the chill clings to her it’s the hot press of her face against his back that quiets it. That has his hands slipping over hers and vainly trying to warm them up.

“Come on now dear, I’m not going anywhere,” he chides, the words long familiar as he whispers them. Repeated often in the Rising Stones as the months passed, uncertain for the fate of the others. In Ishgard after he’d finally felt the despair from his own intimate loss... “Let me up, I should really grab a shirt and get off this blanket. You’re freezing.”

Instead she shakes her head, fingers clutching a bit tighter against his skin and he blows out a sigh.

This long and still so much pride... they really are too alike.

“You took your boots off at least?” he asks gently, fingers soothing over hers for heat. Again, no response and he gives a theatric huff. “Stubborn.”

It isn’t hard to free himself, pushing himself up to grab the blanket still folded at the end of the bed and glancing into the room. He’s much too used to the shade of the Shroud, and he spots her sword and focus on the table and boots next to a chair in the moonlit dark easily. He’d always been rather at home in the night... It was what made that blanket of stars a relief to see again even after his brief time on the First in the blistering sands and on still watered shores.

Shaking out the blanket, he fusses it up over the both of them.

“You’ve handled your sword and focus?” he asks again, and this time he gets a small nod. “Good. A Warrior should always look after the equipment that looks after them,” he murmurs, tone quiet and soft.

Distraction. Speaking of mundane simple things instead of the more difficult situations that made the mind withdraw. He was familiar with it. He could recall the times Haurchefant had done the same for him, distracting him with easier things until his mind could unwind from whatever dark place it had been. The patient chatter that at least said you weren’t alone.

Slipping an arm under the Red Mage, he pulls her closer to the center of the bed with him before curling up around her protectively. Tucks her under his chin and holds her close, petting soft white strands idly a moment before resting his palm over the chilled length of an ear.

It takes a few moments for her to move. To shift closer and slip an arm around his back and bury her face against his chest.

“I’ve got you,” Alvaar murmurs softly. “Whatever happens, you’ll always have me. That’s a promise.”

It’s quiet between them, silence creeping into the shadows of the room as the Bard waits patiently. Let’s her warm up steadily from the chill.

Even waiting for them, her words catch him by surprise.

“It never gets easier... does it?” Her voice is soft in the quiet, hollow and sad, and even speaking the words she doesn’t move further. Merely waits for his reply and he can feel the expectation of it.

And for a moment, he almost wants to lie. Wants to offer some false hope or comfort. But he knows in these times of hardship and trial, truth is more important between them, no matter how painful it might be.

“No. It never does,” he sighs finally, squeezing her a bit tighter for a moment. “It hurts each time. The guilt tears into you each time. It rips and bleeds and hurts, every time. .... And... I hope it never stops hurting each time either.”

At that he feels her flinch, tilting her head as if to hear him better. He doesn’t need to see her expression to know the puzzlement and loss.

They’re old words. From distant memories. Standing at a different gravestone next to the faceless memory of the woman who had raised him. Rosa’s words. As he’d knelt in the dirt and asked her how to handle the pain. How to handle the loss and the heartache. Why bother loving anything when it hurt so much to have it taken away?

Words that were no less painful to remind himself over the last few years.

“For myself,” he starts quietly, taking in a steadying breath. “I hope it never gets easier. I hope it hurts. I hope it aches. I hope it tears me up inside. I hope each person lost lingers on me like a scar so I never forget it. I hope I never grow numb to what those people meant to me. I hope I never stop reaching out to others anyway, even knowing it might hurt. Even knowing that one day it can all end in tragedy. .... I hope I never stop trying to love and care about people.

“This world can be so cruel, Alisaie. This world will always seem to try and tear you down. And if you close off your heart to protect yourself, then that’s all it will ever seem. If you close off your heart to the pain, then it’s like you’re closing it off to all of that good too. Blocking yourself off from that joy and love in the world, no matter how brief it might be. So... don’t be afraid of that hurt. Don’t be afraid of what makes you human.

“.... I want it to hurt. I want that pain to make me strive harder to protect those beside me now. And I want it to linger and remind me of how beautiful the times I had with those lost were.”

Nuzzling into white hair he held tight for a moment. “It never gets any easier, but we can make it mean something. The ache of loss stays the same but carrying the weight of memory gets easier. Each voice, each scar, layering over into our personal song. ... I don’t ever want to forget a single part of it.”

A soft bitter snort left her, fingers gripping a bit tighter against his skin. “How like a Bard... you almost make it sound like some romantic notion and not an aching reminder of my failures...”

Alvaar falls quiet, unwilling to protest out of reflex and further unwilling to gloss over her own pains when he knows it will do no favors. But there’s a weight in the silence that follows, the faintest shift of her jaw that says she needs him to continue. That she wants to understand this curious belief he’s fostered through years of hardship.

“The very first Bards found their magic because of such things, Alisaie. From having to stoically watch as their comrades fell around them in battle, the first echoes of Bardsong came on the ringing of a bowstring instead of a harp. Hoarse voices rising over the sound of slaughter to give flight to that feeling of helplessness. Burning such awful memories into our hearts, harnessing that emotion to give strength to our comrades, carrying the burden of all that bitter agony with a compassionate heart and holding it as close as we do all the joyous memories we cherish... That is what makes a Bard.”

“And another lecture,” she murmured, tone empty of what was usually a teasing note but Alvaar didn’t take it to heart regardless when he can read it for what it is. “You speak as if you were there. Like you’ve heard it...” she continues softly.

Once more silence ranged between them for a few beats before he offered a simple reply. “Because I have.”

The Red Mage goes very still in his arms for a moment before tilting her head up slightly, “How so?”

Again, there’s a pensive pause. Alvaar was hardly one to speak about himself and his past, even as keen as he was to talk about Bards and their histories. Another deep sigh left him before he began. “The first Bardsong I learned is the Mage’s Ballad. A song given to me by the crystal I carry, ‘The Soul of the Bard.’ But the first song I learned _myself_ was The Warden’s Paean. A song that allows you to aid others in time of need and safeguard them from future danger temporarily. And I learned it by putting the restless souls of the fallen to their eternal rest.

“Their regrets, potent enough to chain a soul to its remains for years after death, have marked upon my heart and soul and found resonance. I have felt that fervent wish, that desperation, that wailing cry of torment... from in life and from the hereafter. I know that song and its rhythm as intimately as my own heartbeat, Alisaie, because I have also lost everything that I held dear to me. Because I have lain mired and heartsick wishing I had done something to stop it. A Bard cannot sing of anything but a heartfelt truth if they wish to use their magic. The words, the notes, those are of no consequence. But it’s the underlying sincerity in that feeling which remains the same and lets us channel Bardsong.”

Alvaar hears the soft huff she gives, knowing he’s gone on long enough. So he heaves a slow sigh, squeezing her again briefly. “I know. It will all sound flat and hollow. It won’t sound like the pain that you feel, and frankly, I wouldn’t insult you by saying I know what you’re feeling... It’s yours Alisaie. It’s a feeling that is yours and yours alone. For now, just grieve, I’ll be here with you for as long as you need. Tonight, and tomorrow, and all the days after if you require.”

There’s the faintest twitch of her fingers against his back, the lightest drag of nails as she balls them into a fist and her arm tightens about him with more strength than he remembers. Again, there’s a grim reminder of the time that has passed. Months in a foreign land, and a wiry solidness to her slightly taller frame that’s new and wholly her own. She’s familiar but changed, forged further in the flames of conflict and heat of desert sands.

The choked sob that leaves her shuddering frame, however, is something he knows from experience.

“I loved her...” The words are strained, warped with tears and grief as she buries herself against his chest and finally cries. The sort of deep and broken sobs that sound a little different from this side of them.

It’s not something that catches him by surprise. At least, not right now. When he’d first heard the few lilting notes of a familiar flute after he’d reunited with Alisaie in Amh Araeng he’d been puzzled but brushed it off as not his to question. The music he occasionally heard that accompanied people, his gift as a Bard and perhaps as one blessed with the Echo, could sometimes give him clues to things. Personalities, quirks, and even what he hazarded as commonalities.

For the longest time he’d heard the same somber but dignified tune between Alisaie and Alphinaud. Something they’d shared with Louisoix. Some weird quirk he’d chalked up to common blood and legacy. The drive and sense of duty to continue what their beloved Grandfather had started. In the years since he had heard the changes and nuance they gained, as each sibling grew with their experiences. Still not far removed from that canticle, but altering and molding through it, separate unique takes to a theme.

And so had this instrument woven its way, subtle and soft, into those somber notes of Alisaie’s song. Something warm, gentle and loving. The quiet solo that had whispered to him as he’d walked with Tesleen to the Inn at Journey’s End in harmony to the hiss of sand underfoot. A song that had reassured him there would be no trap waiting for him, but an important answer he sought.

The difference a few months could make on someone... in a foreign place at the edge of a world on the brink of desolation and destruction. The final resting place for those lost souls forsaken and beyond saving...

He would have fallen in love too. The same way he had fallen so hopelessly in love when his own sad and weary heart had learned such gentle kindness from a loving soul.

“I...” He wants to apologize for the world’s cruelty. To say it will be okay. But he knows himself how little, how hollow their meaning and sound. How cruel they are even as a perceived kindness...

“I’ve got you,” he repeats instead, the words finding their way with her next pained sob. “I’m here. You don’t have to keep it all locked up inside, Alisaie. I’m here for you.”

They’re words that had shattered him like glass years before in the Falling Snows. And though it’s hard to stay still and silent, to listen to the cries and offer what weak scraps of comfort he could, he doesn’t flinch from it. Because loss and heartbreak are an awful and terrible storm, but as weak a comfort as it may seem companionship through it means everything. And though he doesn’t have the gift that Haurchefant had, the ability to say the most comforting things when they needed to be heard, he does his best with what he has. And Alvaar had, for most of his life, used music where words had failed him.

He begins to hum, something quiet, something soft. So unobtrusive she doesn’t really hear it until her tears have finally stopped. When she’s sniffling into the handkerchief he’d offered, summoned from whatever small pocket space he kept his things, and the slow notes filter through.

“Alvaar?” she asks at length, voice harsh from tears but otherwise quiet.

“Hm?”

“Is that,” a pause as her words crack to clear her throat tiredly, “the song you were talking about?”

“For Warden’s Paean? Yea.”

“... I’ve never heard it before.”

“Well... it’s my take on it. Something personal to me. Not all Bards need sing the same song for the effect,” he murmured.

“It’s... gentler than I thought it would be,” she mused softly. “Almost like a lullaby.”

“Different rendition. Don’t get me started, you know I’ll wax poetic all night and bore you to t-... sleep.” He gives a slow faintly pained sigh at the blatant adjustment. Thankfully, she doesn’t seem bothered.

“... Would it... be alright if I didn’t talk about it right now? Later... I think. Just not right now,” she murmurs.

Ruffling her hair gently he hums in agreement. “Whenever you like or even not at all. You don’t have to explain yourself to me. Just... know that you can talk to me about it. Any of it. Even if it’s just memories or something unrelated.”

Alisaie nodded slightly, again her fingers shifting against his back and tightening subconsciously a moment before her next question.

“May I stay? With you I mean... like this...” It’s hesitant, a touch wary. A fear of rejection he’s familiar with. The tension in her shoulders eases as the Bard gives her a reassuring squeeze of the arm around her back.

“If you wish. Just maybe let me get dressed. It’ll be a bit more comfortable for me that way.”

There’s a pause of silence where she shifts back to look at him in confusion before glancing down at where her hand is pressed to his chest. “Oh.” Another beat. “Oh! Yes of course!”

Alvaar at least manages not to laugh at her as she quickly scrambled out from under the blanket and sits up on the edge of the bed, shoulders hunched in embarrassed mortification. Instead he hauls himself up, a brief flicker of light and whisper of aether in the dark as he summons in one of his thinner tunics and tugs it on before doing the same with a worn pair of cotton pants. Slipping to the edge of the bed, he pauses to ruffle her hair fondly before rising to his feet. “Need a change of clothes? I don’t recommend sleeping in one’s battle attire, but I won’t judge either. Done it plenty myself.”

She lifts her head at that, staring into the room blankly a moment before sighing faintly. “I likely should. I have something in my kit...” Her words trailed off; expression pensive in the silver edged glow of the moonlight reflecting off the floor. “... I should take a bath too I suppose.”

“If you like. I’ll wait for you. Otherwise I’ve got a wash basin you can use,” he offered, long strides already seeing him across the expansive room. Casting a glance back at her and the listless stare she was giving at nothing, he frowned faintly. “Maybe that. It’s been a long day.” Gripping the water pitcher, he tapped a finger against the ceramic, setting a steady quarter time.

The faint vibration that started to build in the air wasn’t lost on him. In the still and quiet he could feel the faintest pulse of wind currents against his skin as he started to hum softly. A soft but loving piece, the flicker of flames and a grief-stricken firebird in his memories. By the time he’d returned to the bedside with pitcher and basin both, the water he poured into it was steaming in the cool air.

He missed Alisaie’s puzzled expression, but not the inflection of it on her words. “I thought you said you were aether inept?”

“I am. A little less so with your tutelage... but don’t fret a Bard for their tricks. Lavender or rose?”

“What?”

“Which do you prefer? Lavender is better for sleep they say but I like roses myself. Very classic.”

“I... lavender I suppose. ... Wait, you carry around bath oil?” she asked after a moment when he summoned in one of his packs and pulled a bottle from it. Giving a measured splash into the basin before stashing it back and swirling the contents nonchalantly.

“I’m a fop at heart Miss Leveilleur. You don’t think I step off the battlefield looking this sharp because of Hydaelyn’s blessing, do you? Because I assure you... it does nothing. Beauty is pain,” he remarked lightly, waving a fresh washcloth at her before holding it over. “Here. I’ll take your gear to the mender. I noticed a few tears in that jacket of yours. A lady needs her privacy after all, so take your time.”

Taking the offered cloth after a moment she heaved a slow but grateful sigh. “Thank you. I... If it isn't too troublesome, would you take my dress too? It would be nice to get it cleaned and repaired.”

That drew the Bard up short a moment before he nodded. “Sure. I’ll keep my back turned. Blankets behind you for modesty,” he replied, quickly doing an about face to stand at attention and huffing when she snorted out a soft laugh.

“Thanks,” she murmured, this one a bit more heartfelt as she pressed the fabric into his hands that were resting behind his back.

“Of course. I’ll be back,” he returned, quickly excusing himself and grabbing her leather jacket and boots up as he left.

Shutting the door behind him he had all of a second to be puzzled by the white glow and luminescent fur of a rather large carbuncle sitting outside his door before he noticed Alphinaud standing farther behind it. A moment of equal surprise passed them both with the distant sounds of revelry still echoing through the Pendants. The Scholar stared at him silently in confusion before his gaze flicked down to the clothes in Alvaar’s arms.

When the deep blue of his gaze locked back on the Bards face, a flicker of something protective and angry that he hazarded was rapidly approaching murderous, it resonated in an actual bolt of fear piercing the Warrior of Lights heart. He’d fought on three war fronts in the last few years with a staunch and unwavering conviction.

And in the face of one Alphinaud Leveilleur, who was already settling a hand on the tome at his hip, he immediately put his hands up in surrender. “I can explain.”

“Start.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: You're probably going to need [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VTFDw2gCcMI) if you want an idea of what Alvaar is singing.

“So that’s it. That’s what happened, I swear, if you don’t believe me, ask your sister,” Alvaar murmured, sitting on the steps of one of the stairways after dropping off the Red Mage’s gear with the mender. Alphinaud was perched nearby, mulling over the recap of Alvaar’s evening he’d been told while his carbuncle was currently draped across the man’s lap.

Breathing out a slow sigh, the Scholar finally eased a bit, though his face seemed no less troubled by the news. “So that sin eater _was_ someone she knew... that would explain her reaction then. Who was it?”

“Tesleen. One of the carers at the Inn she was close with. Seemed a very sweet woman... she didn’t deserve that fate,” Alvaar answered, fingers still buried in plush fur. “That good? Not going to kill me now? Because I’m certain she won’t be too happy with what I have said, and any further details you’d have to ask her yourself. That’s just what I know from the brief time I was there.”

“I don’t imagine Alisaie will be either,” Alphinaud mused, studying his own shoes intently. “And... you’re fine Alvaar. My apologies. I should have known better, but even so I shouldn’t have reacted that way.”

Glancing at him, Alvaar shrugged. “You were worried for your sister after she was obviously showing signs of upset and distress. I don’t blame you. If I were in a similar situation, I would have done the same even if one of the Twelve walked out the door instead. Speaking of, why were you there anyway?”

“When Alisaie still hadn’t returned, I thought it best to try and track her down to ensure she hadn’t been ambushed by sin eaters. Moonstone had just led me to your door before you opened it,” he explained quietly.

“Ah... neat trick. You know, I didn’t get a chance to ask before Alphi... who’s this cutie? Moonstone obviously, but I don’t remember you using a white carbuncle before. Last I knew was obsidian,” Alvaar inquired, ruffling the carbuncles long ears and grinning slightly at the rumbly purr it earned.

“Hm? Oh... I suppose you haven’t. I’d only just finished the basic geometries before I left for Garlemald. It’s based from white moonstone, designed for healing support instead of offensive arts,” Alphinaud answered, studying the carbuncle with a faint puzzlement as it continued to snuggle into Alvaar’s lap.

“So _you’re_ the one who left all those paw prints in that shack in Kholusia,” Alvaar remarked brightly, ruffling soft fur and grinning at the bright chirp he got in answer even as Alphinaud pulled an annoyed face.

“I told you I spent most of my idle time on refining it Alvaar, don’t tease me,” he huffed.

“Well, they’re lovely. Hmm... Can I call you Carbi?” Alvaar asked the summon, tilting his head as the carbuncle’s fox like face looked up at him before chirping again. “Carbi with an I, it is.”

“You can’t be serious...” Alphinaud sighed, pinching at the bridge of his nose.

“Well, I can’t call it Mooni. That’s just silly.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“I’m not the one that keeps designing cuter and cuter fuzzy pets for battle and then refusing to name them Leveilleur. You did this to yourself. But much as I would like to stay here and chat with you, and I do mean that I’ve rather missed our talks, I should be getting back.” He paused, mulling over the situation before meeting his friend’s eyes. “She asked to stay in my room tonight. If you wanted to talk to her before tomorrow, now might be the time,” he stated, offering an out that he knew the Scholar didn’t miss.

Glancing away in deep thought, Alphinaud sighed. “Knowing my sister if she wanted to talk to me than she would have. I fully expected her to be upset with my attempt to find her after she made it clear she wanted to be left alone. I had just wanted to ensure she was alright, and now I know she is. If she went to see you then that’s where she wishes to be.” Looking up at him, the Scholar gave a genuine if tired smile. “Contrary to my... less charitable reaction earlier... I know if she is with you, she’ll be fine. That’s enough for me. Anything further can be discussed later after we’ve all had some well-earned rest.”

“Sure?” Alvaar asked after a moment.

“Positive.”

“Alright.” Studying the Scholar’s face and the traces of weariness on it, Alvaar reached over to loop an arm around his shoulders and pull him into a one-armed hug. “Promise me you’ll rest? No staying up late for politics and research okay?”

A soft chuckle left the shorter Elezen after a moment. “I assure you my friend, the very next place I’m going to is my suite. ... Just... please take care of my sister.”

“I will. Now then, up you get Carbi. Cute as you are, I’ve a job to do.” The Bard waited as the carbuncle gave him a brief look before slipping off his lap to perch on the stairs with a dutiful if squeaky chirp. “.... Oschon’s bow and staff you’re so damn cute,” he murmured, ruffling the carbuncles fluffy cheeks. “Alphi I like this one. They’re so chatty... little charmer you,” Alvaar crooned, ducking down to press a kiss to the creature’s forehead before hauling himself up to his feet. Giving a last fur smoothing pet to the summon, he started up the stairs towards his room. “Get some rest Alphi. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Of course. Pleasant dreams Alvaar.”

Knocking on the door, Alvaar waited for the muted answer before letting himself in. Remembering to lock it behind him this time, he paused as he stared into the room. It wasn’t particularly difficult to spot Alisaie, especially where she was leaned against the side of the open window in a thin shirt and shorts, staring out into the night and edged in silver light. It only made her long wave of white hair glow even brighter in the dim where she’d freed it from its usual braid.

It wasn’t the first he’d seen it, given their travels and closeness in the past, but it was... different somehow. In a way he couldn’t quite place.

“It’s beautiful. I can only imagine what it must seem like for the people of the First. This would be the first time they’ve ever seen the night sky,” Alisaie mused aloud. “I didn’t think I would ever get used to that oppressive veil of light when we initially arrived. I spent the first few weeks perpetually sleep deprived and out of sorts because of it.” Trailing off a moment, she gave a single humorless laugh. “They used to tease me at the Inn. For patrolling at all the oddest hours. It took me what felt like forever to get used to it. Tesleen... she used to wait up for me, even when I told her not to. She said it was always important to welcome someone back home...”

Hearing the catch in her voice, Alvaar finally trailed closer. Stepping up beside her and meeting Alisaie’s gaze when she looked up at him with a watery and pained smile.

“I had hoped... I’d wanted her to see the night sky. She believed so... so firmly that one day things would be better...” Looking away abruptly she shut her eyes and hugged her arms tighter where they were folded over her chest. Gently thumping her head against the opened shutter, she let out a slow and shuddering breath. “Gods... I failed them Alvaar. A good soul was ripped away and it hurts... That loss and that failure hurts.” Falling quiet with a harsh sniffle she thumped her head against the wood again a bit harder. “Damnit... I’d always known one day I’d have to leave. It wasn’t even anything that serious... nothing there ever could be but... this hurts so much worse than before. It cuts so much deeper...”

Noting where her fingers were dug in against her arms, he tugged her away from the window and pried her hands free. Clasping them in his own and giving her a sympathetic look. “I know.”

“We used to go to the market together,” she continued thoughtlessly after a moment, voice soft even as her hands shook in his grip as she stared at them. “She taught me several recipes. We’d spar together in the early morning before the others woke. We used to stay up all hours talking about anything and everything. Every time another patient was too far gone, she would still smile and reassure them everything would be fine. She would hand them the poisoned food herself and I remember it... I remember her tears against my neck when I held her afterward as she would cry late in the evenings when the others were asleep... I remember the first time we kissed in the shade of those ruins. The way she looked so peaceful when she slept and-” Her words finally clipped off with a choked noise, burying her face against his shirt with a muffled sob.

Releasing her hands so she could grip against the fabric at his back, he settled an arm around her shoulders, gently soothing his free hand through soft glowing strands comfortingly.

“How could you stand this after Haurchefant...? It feels like my heart is ripping in two...” she whispered hoarsely.

That made him still, glancing out the window and into the moonlit night stretching out below…

He flicks his gaze back down to her quickly. “Sometimes I still can’t,” he admitted softly, going back to petting her hair gently. “But we endure. For those we have lost, for those we may yet save. We continue to carry on one way or another. It’s alright. Go ahead and talk. Cry. Whatever you need. I’m here for you Ali. And I promise you, I swear it, we’re going to save these people.”

Alvaar’s eyes are heavy when they’re finally settled back in bed, the Red Mage curled up against his chest quietly as they lay on their sides like before. Once again his arms are looped loose but protectively around her, humming softly out of habit. He almost thinks she’s asleep before Alisaie shifts enough to glance up at him, expression equally tired but still restless.

“What is it from? That tune. You said it was your take on Warden’s Paean. Did you write it yourself?” she asked softly.

“No, just a song my mentor used to sing. ... She was a healer. A White Mage. I tend to think of her when I channel it,” he answered calmly.

“Would you mind singing it?” Alisaie queried carefully. Likely because of how little he’d spoken of the woman in the past, only ever in the bits and pieces of memories as they came back to him.

“Can’t sing on my side like this, it’s bad posture for breathing. But let me lie on my back and I can if you promise to go to sleep.” It’s a pointless bargain when he knows how haunting the first night is himself, but her nod is something at least. Rolling onto his back, he frees the arm that had been slipped under and about her as she shuffles closer again to rest her head against his shoulder and stretch an arm over his chest. Curling his arm high at her back so he can rest his hand against her shoulder.

It reminds him of Ala Mhigo abruptly. That victory that has now been... Gods... how long had it been? Almost a year on the Source now surely but it feels like a weary lifetime and yesterday all at once. When he’d been so tired and soul sick after his multiple clashes against Zenos. The weight of so many attempts, deaths and failures, and the familiar and loving arms that had held him tight in that space between. The familiar gentle voice offering advice and encouragement in those scant moments. How badly, even now, he wanted to let go and let that quiet space keep him safe and warm with the man he loved…

But he couldn’t. Not when the warm press of Alphinaud and Alisaie, curled up against his sides on that overcrowded cot, had seemed to keep his soul chained to his body. Silently reinforced all the reasons he’d needed to stay with the support and companionship of his dearest friends and allies.

“Alvaar?” Alisaie asks softly, breaking him from his thoughts.

“Sorry. Lost in thought. Almost feels like Ala Mhigo... Your brother had been looking for you by the way,” he replies, almost smirking at the expected annoyed huff that leaves her.

“Why am I not surprised... I told him to leave me alone and he can’t very well trust me on that can he the meddling...” she groused, grumbling again as Alvaar chuckled.

“Don’t be mean, he was really worried for you. I would give up a lot of things to have family that cared so much about me,” he reminded gently. Surely Alphinaud hadn’t wanted him to mention it, but he was certain her stoked temper would cool by morning. Perhaps it would even open the way for them to talk. One really couldn’t have too many friends to help them with their grief.

“Don’t think you’re getting out of singing Aldaviir. Quit bringing up distractions,” she grumbled sourly.

“You say that like you’ve never heard me sing before,” he joked.

“I haven’t,” Alisaie returned curtly.

That made him blink, staring at her blankly. “Bullshite. I’m told I scarcely ever shut up in combat.”

“In combat, sure. The practice yard, yes... But that’s more instrument than voice. Whatever use of aether you do to call music without needing to play. But I’ve never heard just _you_ sing...” she argued flatly.

“Lucky you. Alphinaud likely wishes he could have gotten me to shut up.” It’s accompanied with a soft chuckle as he remembers the Scholar’s hastily beaten retreats in the past. “Don’t get your hopes up. I’m tired and won’t be projecting properly.”

“I’ll withhold my critique.”

“That’s very kind of you. There’s a long build to it first, let me catch the tune before you get mad at me.” Settling back he studied the ceiling in the dark a moment, taking a few experimental deep breaths before starting to hum again. The same soft tune as he had before, slow and calming, though clearer and stronger now that he could breathe properly.

The lyrics were ones he’d long etched into his heart, and they rolled easy off his tongue on well-practiced habit. Words of comfort, almost like a lullaby, but speaking too deep for the different weariness that could fill a heart. A meaning he had only learned in the many years since, a world away from the echoes of thunder as he’d first heard them. The rasp of rain against treated fabric as he’d clutched into the warmth of Rosa’s robes when he’d been young, fragile, and small with malnourishment. Shivering with fear and chill in the nights storm. Afraid for what might haunt that dark when he couldn’t hear the approach of footfalls in the rain, a warning he’d learned to wake for in his troubled youth.

Rosa hadn’t been anything approaching a Bard. Her voice too untrained to hold the notes proper, more whisper singing than anything... But deep in his heart, as he’d spent many hours since contemplating and perfecting his craft, he knew it must have been the first flicker of Bardsong he’d ever heard. A melody and lyrics that had passed through the years into folksong, changing hands many times like a worn Allagan bronze before it came to him.

Strength. Endurance. Rest and peace in those moments they were most needed. Hope amidst the promise of those words.

All would be well in time.

He’s not surprised to feel her settle further into his side as he sings for her, the faintest bit heavier as the tension in her muscles ease. There are a few hot pinpricks of unconscious tears that sink against his shirt even as she falls asleep, the even and slow rhythm of her breathing an unconscious accompaniment he matches on instinct.

Finishing the last meter, he listens to the notes as they echo in the large room, a soft prickle against his skin that waits like a question. It’s something he’s learned is the hum of Resonance waiting for use, the aether primed from his music ready to find use with his additional skills. He lets it slip away as he closes his eyes, curling a bit closer and fussing the blankets about the young woman buried against his side unconsciously.

There’s a faint... something. A subconscious feeling, a knowing, that stirs in his head sleepily. The same way many of his memories come back to him, suddenly coming to his mind as if stepping free from a fog. But even when he waits it doesn’t reveal itself, and he falls asleep before noticing the other entity in the room. A pale ghost perched on the windowsill, sitting still and quiet with his eternally bloodstained axe shining like a crescent moon in the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nocturne: A piece written for the night


End file.
